Exit Strategy (13 page)

He gulped and hurried to the other side of the room, exiting through the archway that led into the section of tunnels that had nothing to do with the mainframe, and ended past the parking lot via a maintenance building. One problem solved—­getting Bishop out of the way—­for now.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” Cyprian addressed the two remaining enforcers. “I have to make one very important call before we can take care of our business.” He punched the speed dial he’d used earlier in the day and picked up the receiver. “Eddie, yes, Cyprian again. Any luck with that property list that I requested?”

“I’m close to providing it, sir. Mr. Hunt seems more concerned about his privacy than most. The web of fake corporations is impressive. But I’ll break it all down. No one can own property without a paper trail, no matter how hard they try. I’ll figure it out.”

“I need that information ASAP.”

Cyprian punched the button to end the call. “Once we have that list, the three of us will work together to pare it down to the most likely places where Mason might be hiding. I’m betting that the good detective is wrong and that Miss Hightower is
not
home. If Mason believes she needs protection, he’ll have her with him, wherever he is.”

He noted that one side of Ace’s face was swollen. But Cyprian didn’t have to ask who’d done that damage, since Ace kept glaring at Stryker like he wanted to kill him. Then again, Ace could just be furious that Stryker was pointing a gun at him.

“Stryker,” Cyprian said. “Has the entire matter that I assigned you been taken care of per my instructions? Once you took care of the . . . complication . . . that you mentioned over the phone?”

Ace’s clenched hands told Cyprian what he thought of being called a “complication.”

“It has,” Stryker said.

“Wonderful. Excellent job. Ace, on the other hand, you’ve been a very, very, bad boy. Stryker tells me that you were already at the burn center when he arrived. If you’d managed to extract Austin Buchanan before Stryker got there, you could have ruined everything. You’ve made me an unhappy man.”

Ace didn’t look like he cared one bit if he’d upset his boss. He looked as if he wanted to strangle him, and he probably did.

Cyprian sighed and shook his head. He’d allowed Ace far too long to mourn Kelly’s loss. It was time to rein him in. “You were assigned to back up Mason Hunt the other evening.” He didn’t add that the EXIT order had been faked or that he wasn’t the one to request Ace to back up Mason on the mission. He had no intention of anyone ever finding out that Bishop had been that bold and had managed such a security breach without Cyprian even realizing it. If the Council found out how badly he’d lost control of his ­people, they might be tempted to replace him. And that he could not allow.

“You were supposed to make sure that Mason’s mission was concluded per the EXIT order. Bishop informs me that you said the mark had, indeed, been eliminated.”

He grabbed the remote from his desk and pressed one of the buttons. The screens lit up.

Ace paled when he saw the sketches.

“Tell me, Ace,” Cyprian continued. “If your mission was successful, then how did Miss Hightower manage to go to the police station and provide sketches of Devlin and Emily Buchanan, and you?”

Ace’s surprise at hearing the Buchanans were married was obvious when his eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. His lips compressed in a tight line of mutiny. What he needed was to be broken down, for something to get past that arrogance and resistance. And Cyprian knew exactly which button to push to accomplish that goal.

“I think it’s time you explained to me exactly what happened during your mission the other night.” Cyprian held his right hand out, and Stryker immediately put his gun in Cyprian’s palm. Cyprian stepped closer to Ace until their bodies were almost touching. He pressed the gun hard against Ace’s forehead and leaned in close so he could whisper in his ear. “Kelly was a great lay. We can
both
attest to that.”

Ace cursed foully but didn’t move, probably because he knew Cyprian would blow his head off if he did.

“Because of your feelings for her,” Cyprian continued to whisper, “I’ve given you far more leeway than I would any other enforcer. But be warned. The time for leniency is over. One more screw-­up and you’re dead.” He pressed the gun harder, certain it would leave a mark. “Do we have an understanding?”

Ace remained stubbornly silent.

Cyprian shoved the muzzle, knocking Ace’s head back, but he still didn’t say anything.

“Stryker?” Cyprian asked.

“Sir?”

“Ace seems to have forgotten his manners. Remind him.” He set the gun on the desk and headed into the outer office. The panel slid shut as the screams began.

Chapter Eleven

Day Three—­9:00 a.m.

S
abrina stretched out on Mason’s king-­sized mattress covered with soft, royal-­blue cotton sheets that smelled like a summer breeze. The sun was just peeking in through the window blinds. She assumed that Mason had slept in the guest room, but she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t heard him come back inside after their conversation about EXIT.

She hated the way they’d left things. But she’d learned one thing after tossing and turning most of the night. Mason had gotten under her skin in ways no one else ever had. What had it been? Two? Three days now since he’d first carried her out of her house? How could he
matter
so soon, especially given how their short acquaintance had begun? All she knew for sure was that he
did
matter. He’d been all she could think about last night. And she wanted, more than anything, to move past their conversation of yesterday evening and get back to the way things had been before—­when they’d shared the laughter and stories about his family on the porch while eating peanut butter sandwiches.

She padded into the bathroom and took a quick shower. Dressed in shorts again and a white button-­up blouse, she headed into the hall. The door to the guest room was open but no one was inside. The bed was made, but she didn’t know if that meant he’d made it this morning or hadn’t slept in it at all. She hurried into the family room, but her shoulders slumped when she saw he wasn’t there.

A bowl and a box of Frosted Flakes cereal were sitting on the kitchen counter. With a note propped up against the box. There wasn’t much to it—­it simply said to make herself at home, that he had a security monitor on so he’d know if anyone approached the house. She should watch TV and relax.

She wasn’t hungry, but since she hadn’t really eaten much since this had all begun, she forced herself to eat the bowl of cereal. After cleaning and putting the dishes away, she considered watching TV. But the lure of the beautiful outdoors beckoned from the large picture window. She put her tennis shoes on and headed out back.

Sun glinted off something in the distance. She shaded her eyes and realized it was Mason’s blue pickup, parked beside the barn. He must have moved it this morning. It had been parked by the house last night. A whistling noise sounded from the direction of the barn, followed by a thump. She had no clue what the sound was, but since Mason wasn’t running toward the house with gun drawn, there must not be anyone else around. Which meant he was the one making the noise.

She jogged down the porch steps and headed toward the barn.

M
ASON WAS ABOUT
to pull the trigger on the crossbow when he spotted Sabrina rounding the barn fifty yards away. He slowly lowered the bow and watched her with the same awe that he’d felt when he’d seen her all dewy and wet and naked at her house. She was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen. And he could barely catch his breath watching the early morning sunlight glinting off her dark hair.

She waved when she saw him.

He waved back, but smiling was harder to come by this morning. He’d spent the night in the barn, mostly thinking about her, and trying to understand why it bothered him so much that she’d seemed so horrified over what he did as an enforcer. He hadn’t come up with any answers.

She reached him and shaded her big, blue eyes from the sun. They lit with interest when she saw the paper targets tacked to the bales of hay at the edge of the nearest corn row.

“You’re using your bow. I’d love to see you shoot it.”

“Whatever the lady wishes.” He lifted the bow, sighted the target in his scope, and squeezed the trigger. The arrow flew straight and true, puncturing the center circle and embedding itself deep into the bale of hay.

“Wow. Great shot.”

His mood lightened with her praise. He motioned toward her ankle holster. “Want to practice with the Sig?”

Her quick nod and smile were infectious. In no time, he was laughing along with her as if last night’s conversation hadn’t happened, and taking turns firing his Glock while she fired the Sig Sauer.

Half an hour later, Mason pulled another paper target off the bale and shook his head. All of Sabrina’s shots had hit the mark, practically on top of the ones that he had fired. If she could shoot a moving target as well as a stationary one, she just might be a better shot than him. And that was saying something. He pinned a fresh paper to the bale and walked back to the three-­rail wooden fence line where Sabrina was waiting with the Sig Sauer.

“Well?” she asked, trying to peer around him to see the target in his hand. “How did I do? Better than you, right?”

He handed her the paper and took her pistol so she wouldn’t accidentally shoot him in her excitement.

She gave a squeal of delight, thumping the paper where he’d circled his shots in red before she’d taken a turn. “Two of mine are better than yours and the rest are so close they might as well be the same. I beat you.”

Watching her take such enjoyment over something as simple as target practice was as close to pure joy as he could ever remember feeling. “Let’s try something that requires a little more skill.”

“The heavy, unwieldy Glock?” The grumpy look on her face told him she wasn’t fond of that suggestion.

“No, the crossbow.” He holstered his pistol and picked up the bow. “Her name is Lola.”

“You named your crossbow?”

“We’ve been through a lot together. It seemed only fitting.”

“Do you name your guns too?”

“Why would anyone name a gun? That’s just crazy.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned against the top rail while he put his gloves on. “It looks like a rifle with a bow stuck on the end. Why are you wearing gloves?”

“Makes it easier to draw the string back.” He stood the bow on end.

“What are you doing now?”

“Getting it ready to fire. I put my foot in the stirrup to keep it steady, grab the string, and pull.” He cocked the bow and lifted it to notch the arrow into place.

“It looks like a bumblebee.”

He arched a brow in question.

She pointed at the arrow. “The yellow and black feathers on the end. Like a bumblebee.”

“Watch out for its sting.”

She groaned at his corny joke.

He lined up the target in the sight and readied his finger on the trigger.

“Pulling that string back looked pretty hard to do, even for someone as muscular as you.”

He paused, his concentration thrown off as he thought about her watching his movements. He’d certainly been watching every movement of her tone, lithe body as she’d practiced with his gun. But he hadn’t realized she’d been doing the same.

Pushing thoughts of sexy Sabrina out of his mind, for now, he lined up the target and squeezed. The bolt exploded from the bow and flew across the space in a blur, burying itself deep into the bale, tearing a hole through the middle of the target.

“Wow,” Sabrina breathed. “That was fast. And powerful. Can I try it?”

“If you can load it, I’ll let you shoot it.”

Five minutes later, after enjoying her struggle to pull the string far more than he should have, he went back to the truck.

“If you’re giving up on me,” she called out, sounding out of breath, “don’t. I know I can do this. I just have to figure out how to get the right leverage.”

“I’m not giving up on you,” he said, when he returned. “Here, put this in your shoe.” He held out a small pocketknife.

“My shoe? Why?”

“Because you’re not wearing boots like me. And because it’s more secure than in a pocket where it could fall out. The first rule of shooting a bow and arrow is to keep a knife handy. You might have to cut a string or make an adjustment to the arrow.”

She shrugged and dropped the tiny knife in the side of her shoe. “What next?”

He held his hand out.

She eyed the cord with suspicion. “What is it?”

“A rope cock.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re totally making that up.”

“I’m totally not. It cuts the force in half that you have to use to pull the bow string into firing position. You don’t even need gloves for this. Here, I’ll show you how to use the cock.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth.

Sabrina burst out laughing.

Mason leaned against the fence, unable to contain his smile. When Sabrina quit laughing, she picked the crossbow up again and put her foot in the stirrup.

“Okay, show me how to load this thing. And no more dirty talk unless you’re going to follow through.” She winked, which had Mason’s mouth watering.
If he could only be so luck
y. He’d love nothing more than to sink to the ground and make love to her. But the teasing twinkle in her eyes was just that—­teasing—­because there was no way she’d want to share herself with a man like him. Not after last night’s conversation at least.

Even now he was already regretting what amounted to nothing but showing off by switching from the pistols to his favorite weapon—­the crossbow. He used it when quiet stealth was critical and never in close quarters. Too impractical. And now that he’d have to essentially wrap his body around hers to show her the right way to load and fire the bow, he was about to enter a hell of his own making. Wanting, but never having.

“Mason?” The uncertainty in her voice had him forcing a smile.

“Pay attention to the master,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Just one lesson is all I’ll need to have you begging for mercy. Maybe I’ll split your arrow right down the center like in
Robin Hood
.”

“Whatever you say, Maid Marian. Step out of the stirrup and I’ll show you how to load it, then you can try it.”

He shoved his shoe in the stirrup, strung the rope cock on the line, and grasped the handles. “Pull straight up until it clicks.” He pulled the bow up until the line snapped into place, then removed the rope. “Now for the arrow.”

“I want a bumblebee one like you had.”

“All of my arrows have black and yellow fletching.”

“Fletching?”

“Feathers. Basically.”

“Always yellow and black? Is that your trademark?”

He shrugged. “I suppose.” He lifted the crossbow and positioned the nock into place, then set the bolt. “Done. Easy, right?”

“Didn’t look too hard, as long as I’m strong enough to pull the string back like that.”

“All right, Marian. I’ll show you how to hold it.”

“Anything you say, Robin.” She held her hands up for the bow.

“Just remember,” he said, all teasing aside, “this is a dangerous, lethal weapon. It’s not like the bow and arrow you probably used as a child. It’s just as deadly, and in some ways more so, than a gun.”

She nodded, suddenly just as serious as he was. Good. He didn’t want her treating this like a game and getting hurt.

He settled the stock at her shoulder and positioned her hands. He had to stand slightly to the side and behind her to get her set just right. Feeling the warmth of her so close, breathing in the flowery scent of her shampoo was the sweetest form of torture. His hand shook as he placed it on her right hip and adjusted her stance. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, frozen, feeling the soft, feminine curve beneath her shorts and wishing for more, so much more.

She looked at him over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.

He forced himself to drop his hand and he let out a long breath. “Have you ever used a sight before?”

“Yes, on rifles. This seems similar.”

“It is. Just sight the target, make adjustments for the wind.”

“There’s a slight breeze blowing left to right,” she said, and moved the stock, just barely, to the left. “Is that it? I just fire?”

“That’s it. Just squeeze, slowly, no jerks. And be prepared for recoil. It’s not as bad as most rifles but it has a kick.” He stepped back to watch.

She took her time, made another adjustment, then squeezed. The arrow shot from the bow far left of the target and her arm kicked up as she stumbled back. He grabbed her hips again, to keep her from falling. But when he should have let her go, instead, as if his hands had a will of their own, he slid his fingers around her narrow waist, pulling her against him as he helplessly buried his face in the curve of her neck.

He expected a kick to his shin, or an elbow in the ribs. Instead, she slowly lowered the bow, and tilted her neck, ever so slightly, exposing her soft, silky skin. It was all the invitation he needed. He spanned his left hand up beneath her shirt, reveling in the feel of her warm, incredibly soft skin as he settled his mouth against her neck and lightly sucked.

The sexy catch in her breath had his lower body tightening in a hard ridge against her bottom. He couldn’t believe she was letting him touch her like this, but he wasn’t about to stop unless she told him to.

He slid his right hand down, down, slowly, giving her time to stop him. When she didn’t, and his fingers touched her through the cloth of her shorts, she jerked against him and moaned low in her throat. He kneaded her through the material as he tasted and stroked her neck with his mouth and tongue. Salty and sweet, just as he knew she’d be.

The crossbow dropped, forgotten, to the ground and she turned in his arms, angling her mouth up toward his. He slid his hand down her bottom and lifted her up, fastening his mouth to hers. The kiss was hot and wet and spoke of urgency and longing and was so damn sweet. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. The craving to feel her body naked under his, to make love to her with his mouth before thrusting inside her, had been building since he’d seen her after her shower at her house. He was desperate to get her naked, now.

But soon she was pressing him back and breaking the kiss. He reluctantly let her legs drop and held her until she was steady.

“Wow,” she breathed, blinking up at him.

“Wow yourself. Come on. We can clean the guns inside the tack room.” He put the bow and arrows in a bag and tossed them into the truck bed before taking her into the little room in the back corner of the barn.

“You can sit over there and I’ll clean both the guns and reload the magazines. It’ll only take a few minutes.”